


Who Are You, Really?

by ariaadagio



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angst, Background Deckerstar - Freeform, Blood and Gore, Bracelet Bros, Gen, Post-Season/Series 05A, dan knows, ruminations on redemption, when nihilism meets Satan who blinks first?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:35:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27298732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariaadagio/pseuds/ariaadagio
Summary: In which post-revelation Dan is spiraling, and Lucifer thinks more truth will help.
Relationships: Dan Espinoza & Lucifer Morningstar
Comments: 82
Kudos: 396
Collections: TDN's Incredible Exchange 2020





	Who Are You, Really?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [petrichorishly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/petrichorishly/gifts).



> Written for the lovely Petrichorishly as part of the Deckerstar Network’s Incredible exchange. My prompts were ritual, Jekyll & Hyde, and the song [Who Are You, Really?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vMMbeaJV4HM&ab_channel=MikkyEkko-Topic), by Mikky Ekko. Thank you to my beta readers, Hiromystory, Wollfgang, and venividivictorious! Happy Halloween! Hope you enjoy :)
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: graphic depictions of suicide.

The LAPD entry team is too late. In a cacophonous hail of self-inflicted bullets, the ritual ends in Angelus-Rosedale Cemetery. Cult members drop like dominoes, still clutching their guns, even as their palms grow slick with blood. Cackling amidst the casualties, Lucius LeFay holds his skeletal hands in the air, exulting like a prophet. Literally, dancing on the graves of his many swindled supplicants.

Dan isn't part of SWAT—he watches through binoculars from a safe distance, feeling the harsh bite of shoulda, coulda, wouldas as LeFay is tackled, cuffed, and dragged kicking and wailing to the waiting police van. Guns are seized. The scene is cleared of threats. Emergency crews swarm the site to triage casualties. Dan trots into the morass beside a pale-faced EMT, the dry grass crackling under their feet, until the sea of glistening red softens their footfalls. 

There is no saving anyone.

The carnage is … spectacular. 

Enough to make Dan's stomach swoop. Breathing forcefully, he stares into the purple-hued night. Shit, shit, shit. He didn't think much could make his stomach turn anymore, but this ….

He's still trying to settle himself when a hand gently touches his shoulder.

"Found your guy, I think," someone says.

Dan clears his throat, dragging his attention back to the scene. Red and blue lights flash. Sirens squawk. Police swarm. Press gathers at the cordon, microphones outstretched as they lob question after unanswered question. Dan's gaze drifts to the man who'd spoken—Tim Schneider, a member of SWAT, his expression grave and grizzled. 

"You found Ryder?" Dan asks.

Tim nods. "Over here."

Ryder Holyoke, suspected of murdering his sister, has an affinity for messes—tonight is no exception. He'd joined the cult shortly after the crime, which makes sense. Cults exploit emotional upheaval, and murder is pretty damned emotional, no matter what you tell yourself.

Tim leads Dan toward the makeshift morgue area, already a checkerboard of white sheets against dark grass. Dan feels ill, stepping into the rows. Tim bends down to lift a sheet, pointing his flashlight underneath. The victim's mouth is gone, along with the back of his skull, obliterated by an eaten bullet. But the eyes—a striking empty hazel—are unmistakable.

Dan opens his mouth to speak.

"Ah, yes, our murderous little hairdresser, indeed," decides the Devil with too much glee, and Dan jumps. "I'll let the Detective know case clo—are you quite all right, Daniel?"

Dan barks out an unhappy laugh. They'd come to an uneasy truce after Chloe's kidnapping, once Dan had concluded no imminent harm was meant. "Oh, yeah, sure, man," he snaps. "We're surrounded by at _least_ ninety-seven bodies." 

"Quite a lot more than ninety-seven, I'd say," the Devil replies wryly, tipping his nose toward the nearest blood-spattered gravestone.

"How can you be so fucking _glib_? We just saw enough suicides to fill a metro bus."

He half expects the Devil to snark, _More than one, actually,_ in rejoinder. But he doesn't. What little warmth sparks in his dark eyes extinguishes, snuffed out by a glacial, almost reptilian expression. One that lacks anything relatable or human. 

Tim chews on his lip, glancing back and forth between them. "Um. Yeah. I think I hear someone asking for me." He waves awkwardly at the cluster of flashing police lights and skitters away.

Dan's heart pounds when the Devil doesn't blink. Doesn't move. His hackles refuse to lower, screaming at him to run, but … what's the point?

"Sorry," he grumbles, feeling slightly cowed. "Sorry, I'm just—"

"Suicide is a choice, Daniel," the Devil says coolly. 

"Well, it's a _bad_ choice," Dan snaps. 

"Welcome to free will. Enjoy your stay."

"Who knows what they were thinking? If they were in their right minds?"

"I'd wager anyone willing to kill themselves for a raging zealot like LeFay was not."

"Exactly. They could have been helped. We could have helped them if we'd gotten there sooner."

"The same could be said for many murderers. Do _they_ deserve your sympathy, Daniel?"

The words wallop him like a sack of bricks, and Dan sucks in a breath. The Devil peers back at him, one eyebrow arched in pointed accusation. Or … no. _No_. He can't know everything, can he? He can't know about Perry Smith. Maybe, he means Malcolm. 

Like that's somehow better.

Dan's chest constricts. A gruesome, hurting lump fills his throat like a dragon fruit.

"I … I need some air," he croaks, and scrambles away. 

Away from the lights, noise, and skeletons of pointless violence. Away from the growing pile of bodies, bagged and tagged. Away from Satan.

But not damnation.

Blocks away from the chaos, Dan collapses into the driver's seat of his cruiser, his eyes burning, his fingers shaking. The orange-white light of a lone high-pressure sodium street lamp makes the car dark, but not as pitch. Chatter on the radio is subdued tonight. The pall of tragedy hangs like a shroud. Tragedy. That's what this fucking was. It was _tragedy._ And the Devil couldn't even bring himself to _blink_.

How can—

The locks thunk. The Devil, a lithe line of black Armani, climbs into the car, which sinks on the passenger side, and then jostles. 

"I locked that for a reason," Dan grouses.

"Yes, I know," replies the Devil. "And I've ignored it for a reason."

"What, to fuck with me?"

An affronted sniff precedes a prissy, "I do not _fuck_ with you. Not anymore. I've no desire to exacerbate your very obvious—dare I say _offensive—_ trepidation."

 _Offensive_ , he says.

With a tired sigh, Dan drops his forehead to the steering wheel and closes his eyes. "What do you want, man?"

"Isn't that my line?" the Devil snarks. "Only with more panache?"

Dan has no rejoinder. He wishes Chloe were there to play buffer. Chloe probably wishes it, too. She'd been running excellent interference for weeks, but Trixie just turned twelve—an event that can't be rescheduled. A gaggle of girls are marathoning horror movies into the wee hours tonight. They need supervision. And Chloe had lost the coin toss.

"I've no sympathy for those who reap what they sow," the Devil says, "but I do at times have empathy."

"Dude, you wouldn't know empathy if it bit you in the ass."

"Daniel, I am not _human_."

The harsh memory of hellfire eyes and gleaming teeth sears Dan's mind's eye, and he flinches despite weeks of training himself not to. "Believe me; I gathered."

"I really don't believe you have. Think you I've survived eons in Hell by being _empathetic_? Empathy is _useless_ there. But I am the Devil. Of course I understand regret."

The offered olive branch is small, barely visible in the surrounding bleakness. Dan is tempted not to take it. But … who else has these opportunities? Opportunities to _know_. "What do you regret?" he says warily. "Falling from grace?"

"Heavens, no," the Devil scoffs. "Believe me, 'grace' is not and has never been one of my aspirations."

"Then what the hell does the Devil regret?" 

"I've made decisions that at the time felt right, but in retrospect did not."

The words sound serious enough. Regretful enough. But … no. Dan has learned. He laughs, feeling empty, instead. "You're gonna compare fucking some guy's wife to suicide and murder, aren't you." 

"Only apples exist in this analogy. Not oranges."

Truth is a sweeping, cold tide that settles in Dan's belly, solidifying like a block of ice. 

"And I realize," the Devil continues as Dan's ears start to ring, "this information might make me more frightening to you, not less, but my gut tells me you'll perhaps benefit from hearing it anyway?"

All sinners go to Hell.

 _All_ sinners.

Dan barely has time to snap open the door before he vomits, spilling guilt and grief and too much booze into the gutter.

"Perhaps not, then," the Devil decides somewhere behind him. A hand awkwardly slaps the space between Dan's shoulder blades. "There, there?"

Consoled. Badly. By Satan.

Coughing, tearing, Dan wipes his lips on the back of his palm, panting as he sits up. The Devil draws back, his expression wary. "I'm going to Hell," Dan whispers as he stares with blurring vision through the dirty windshield. "I'm going to Hell."

"Well, not right _now_ ," the Devil says, as if that's somehow helpful.

"But I'm going to _Hell_. I'm gonna burn for eternity." Once Dan starts, the words sluice like rain from a roof. "I fucked my life all to _shit._ That's why you're here. Like a vulture, just … just _waiting_. Of course, you can empathize with me. You're the fucking _Devil,_ and I fucking invited you here _._ "

The Devil is silent as Dan snivels and sniffs and burns with bright hues of humiliation. The minutes pass like slugs oozing through a garden—leisurely, leaving a glistening, sticky trail. Dan's chest hurts. His muscles ache. His mouth tastes of bile, and he's so tired he's seeing spots.

"You truly think I'm here to 'collect' you?" the Devil says, distant. 

"Aren't you?" Dan gasps. "You joined us right after I shot Malcolm."

The Devil picks idly at his gleaming cufflinks, straightening them, his expression unreadable beyond its wrongness. Beyond its _upset._ So much for "success." Maybe, Dan really had offended him. Satan.

"I'm sorry," Dan finds himself saying softly. Begging. Pleading. "I'm sorry. Please, don't—"

"I've no control over who goes to Hell, least of all you," the Devil interrupts, sounding more hurt than peeved. "If you're damned, you'll have damned yourself. Has the Detective explained _none_ of this?"

"I didn't ask her." He hadn't wanted to.

"Bloody hell." A tired sigh suffuses the car cabin. "Daniel, if you wish to fix your life, then _fix_ it. Stop wallowing, and make peace with your decisions. If you've no guilt, Hell cannot take you, or keep you."

"You say that like it's _easy_ ," Dan retorts.

"It is not," replies the Devil. "But it's doable. I _am_ doing it."

Oh. _Oh_. 

Empathy, after all. Bright. Warm. Like a crepuscular ray, cleaving the gloom.

Dan rubs his eyes. "That's," he rasps, feeling as though someone filled his chest with a balloon and inflated it to bursting. "That's what you meant? With the empathy thing?"

"I was damned as well," Lucifer admits. Was. Was damned. Past tense.

"You're … you're really not here for me? You're not here to—"

"My presence has nothing to do with you, Daniel. Only me. I assure you. In fact, for what it's worth, I'd rather you _not_ go to Hell. The Detective would be quite sad."

Dan looses a soft, wry laugh.

Another silence stretches. 

"You," Dan asks, hope a sick and churning thing, "really think I can fix it? Fix myself?" 

"If the Devil can help himself, a mere mortal can, yes?" A pause. "Charlotte did, so there's direct precedent."

Charlotte had had nightmares about Hell. She'd cried in Dan's arms about abetting murderers, and he'd assured her Hell wasn't real. That she shouldn't worry. What a fucking fool he'd been. And then she'd died.

"She was really in trouble?" Dan says.

"Yes, but we helped her—Amenadiel and Linda and I." Lucifer's eyes narrow. "Well, she helped herself, in truth."

"I should have helped her, too."

Lucifer rolls his eyes. "Now, now, none of that, or you really will go to Hell." 

_She's in Heaven, Dan,_ Amenadiel had said.

So, Lucifer can't be blowing smoke. Can he? _Prince of Lies,_ a small voice whispers, but …. 

No. _No_. 

_Faith is a choice, Daniel,_ Father Ramirez had told him when he'd been little. _Make it, or don't, but realize your own responsibility in the transaction._

"I don't even know where to fucking start," Dan says, face heating when his words quaver. He turns to Lucifer—this fallen angel who Amenadiel had considered making a godparent to his son. This fallen angel whom his ex-wife loves. "How did _you_ start?"

Lucifer's gaze shifts to the middle distance. "The Detective," he says softly. "Chloe."

"Well, I don't have Chloe anymore, so—"

"No, no—she isn't a bloody redemption McGuffin. Don't insult her. I only meant … she helped me see."

"See what?"

"That I could be a better version of myself. That I _desired_ to be."

But Dan is already there, desiring. "And then?"

A small smile tugs at Lucifer's lips. "That part, I consider a work in progress."

Not entirely helpful. But hopeful. 

Hope that Dan can arrive, someday, at _anything_ but the nihilistic conclusion his path, at barely middle age, is already set in stone like a fucking hieroglyph. Which … "Thanks. I … thanks." He doesn't know what else to say. Or how to make sense of this mess. Not yet.

Lucifer waves him off dismissively, his onyx ring flashing strangely in the orange-ish light, and then he reaches for the door handle.

"I can give you a ride to your car?" Dan blurts before the door creaks open.

Lucifer stops, hand frozen, outstretched. "I didn't drive."

Which … oh. _Ohhh_. Fuck. 

But Lucifer re-settles, shrugging as if to say, _I suppose I could tolerate a ride if it will cease this nonsense doom spiral of yours_. Or maybe Dan is reading too much into an expression that's now firmly opaque. Dan radios dispatch and books off. The scene, now secured and cataloged, doesn't need extra hands clogging the chaos, and traffic has already been diverted.

"So. Um. Lux?" Dan asks after hanging up.

"The Detective's, please. But do take the long way." Lucifer looses a curdled sound of disgust. "The letter of my promise only requires my night to end there, and I'm in no rush to encounter Beatrice's giggling prepubescent army."

Dan pulls into traffic. The long way. After mass ritual suicide, "the long way" sounds like a bar. He can think of several en route to Venice Beach. But then he's picturing chugging a jaeger bomb with Satan. 

"By the way," Lucifer adds, "people in Hell don't, as a rule, burn. That's a common misconception, but unless you've arsonist tendencies I'm unaware of, you needn't worry on that front."

"Right. Sure," Dan says. At least, in retrospect, the casual insanity in Lucifer's remarks seems … less insane—Dan doesn't feel like he got left by the train at the gate. One small positive in this giant, unresolved cluster fuck. "I'll keep that in mind."

"You do that."

The car rumbles, filling the silence. But the quiet isn't uncomfortable. It just is. Until, "Fuck it," Dan says. "Wanna get a beer?"

"That depends."

"On?"

"Will this beer be served at the kind of low-brow establishment that serves _peanuts_? Because—"

"I just wanna get shit-faced," Dan snaps. "Who gives a fuck if there're peanuts." His heart flutters when he remembers who he's speaking to. He slows as the light ahead turns yellow, and then red. He turns toward Satan. "Well?" 

Lucifer slumps against the window. "Can we drink this beer until 11:59?"

"11:59:59, if you want."

"Very well," he huffs. "But I'm not wearing the bloody bracelet again."

"Did I ask you to?"

"I ran it through an industrial shredder and smote it."

"Dude," Dan says as the light turns green. "You are _so_ melodramatic."

"You _shot_ me."

"I thought I got a message from God!"

Lucifer scoffs. "Oh, yes, delusional is much better than melodramatic."

"Hey, I am _not—_ "

"Catholic?"

Dan opens his mouth. Closes it.

"And smiting the bracelet was far less melodramatic than some of the things I'd planned."

He grinds his teeth. "Look, whatever, man. Let's just get the fucking beer."

"Did I say we couldn't?"

"No …?"

Lucifer smile is feral as he gestures to the road beyond the windshield. "Well, do go on."

"Fine." Dan guns the engine, tipping the needle almost into red. "First pint's on me."

~finis~


End file.
